Good Afternoon, Mister Adams
by Gemini Star01
Summary: Based on the musical 1776, originally for the Kink Meme. Alfred Jones observes and interacts with his founding fathers in the weeks leading up to the inevitable drafting of the Declaration of Independence.
1. Piddle, Twiddle and Resolve

Done as a request for the Hetalia Kink Meme: "America in the musical 1776." It started out as a one-shot with the title that this story is achieved under, but eventually evolved into a connected series of mostly-stand-alone things named after the songs in the musical. Hope you'll enjoy!

_**Disclaimer: **_I no own. Let's get on with the show.

**Piddle, Twiddle and Resolve**

**- May 8****th****, 1776 - **

John Adams burst from the back door of the Pennsylvania State House into the dark Philadelphia streets. Gripping his walking stick tight in his hands, he bounded down the stairs, adrenaline driving him to the speed of a man half his age. Once his feet touched solid ground, he spun around and glared at his fellow congressmen, none of whom looked at all depressed at his departure.

"Good god!" he raged at the open doors. "Consider yourself fortunate that you have John Adams to abuse, for no sane man would tolerate it!"

An equally angry voice was fired back from the delegation of South Carolina. "Would someone shut that man up?!"

"Never!"

Adams turned on his heel and stormed off down the muddy streets. He cursed the Congress and all its damn fools under his breath, then threw in mosquitoes, heat and blasted Pennsylvanian weather for good measure. God in heaven, he hated Philadelphia. He longed for the familiar field of his home in Massachusetts, the farm, the town, the law office and, especially, his sweet Abigail. Her letters, tucked away in the pocket of his suit coat, were the only things that had kept him sane in this past year.

A _year_. A whole year! He practically snarled at the thought. For one solid year, this farce that called itself the Second Constitutional Congress, had been sitting in their same little room in their drab little Philadelphian meeting house for an entire year doing _nothing!_ And as they piddled and twittered around like a bunch of daft old fools, the British army was encroaching deeper and deeper into their lands, General Washington's dispatches from the front grew more and more desperate and King George himself had declared the United Colonies of America to be in uprising against the British crown.

And yet, after all this – not even _mentioning_ the decade of taxation after taxation after regulation that had been piled on their heads, nor the violence that had been wrought when they dared to stand up like men – the _gentlemen_ of congress refused to entertain any of his proposals for independence. They wouldn't even grant him the courtesy of open debate!

"Good _god_," he growled under his breath, "what in the hell are they waiting for?"

"Trouble, Mr. Adams?"

The gentleman stopped in mid-stride, surprised that his deliberation had been interrupted so late in the night. The speaker was a fairly young man, barely more than a boy and certainly not out of his teens, dressed in the plain homespun cloth of the average working man. A military coat hung over his shoulders. It was too big for him and looked terribly hot, but he bore the weight with a sense of pride, as though the devil himself could not have torn it from his back.

"Trouble?" Adams cleared his throat and adjusted the ruffles of his tie. "Of course not. No more than the usual political poppycock."

The boy grinned at that. He had a nice, honest smile, untouched by the darker pains of worldly experience, but it was not a familiar one. Adams regarded him carefully. "Do I know you?"

"I don't suppose so," said the boy, running a hand through his wheat-colored hair. "That is, I figure this is the first time we've met face-to-face, but your reputation precedes you, sir."

"Is that so?"

"Honest truth. When the windows are open, the folks can hear your shouting all the way up the lane."

Adams couldn't help but chuckle at that. Well, at least _someone_ could hear him, for all the good it did in Congress. He gave the boy another look over, passing from his eyes, which were as grey-blue as the Massachusetts Bay, to his worn old boots, and finally, back to the jacket. "Are you a militia man?"

"Sure am. That is, I'd like to be. Haven't actually made it to the field, yet," the young man dropped his head a bit, glancing back towards the State House. "I stuck around here because I felt something big about to happen, but I'd sure like to get out there soon. I hear the General's been having problems."

"Yes, well, he'll pull through. Washington always does," Adams said with a slight sigh. Truly, the General was a great man, and he knew that there was none more worthy to bear the weight of the colonies' hopes; but the 'obedient G. Washington' could be so _morose_, even at the best of times.

He pulled his thoughts away from distant generals and back to the conversation at hand. "Tell me, boy, what is your name?"

"Well, I don't know if I'm gonna keep it, but…Folks call me Alfred. Alfred F. Jones."

"Good name," said Adams distractedly. "What does the F stand for?"

Alfred looked blank. "I don't actually know."

Adams regarded him a moment, wondering if that had been a joke. But no, the young man seemed truly baffled by the ambiguity of his own middle name. "A very good name. Very, very good name."

Alfred grinned, and the smile would have been infectious, had Adams not been in such a sour mood. The older gentleman sighed to himself and set off down the road again, walking at a normal pace now that there were no boisterous congressional bigwigs to flee from.

Alfred fell into step behind him. "Mr. Adams?"

Adams sighed. "Yes, Mr. Jones?"

"Shouldn't you be getting back to Congress soon?"

Adams laughed at that, and it must have sounded somewhat maniacal, because it startled the boy almost out of his boots. "For what purpose? None of those blasted fools are ever going to make up their minds about anything. They can't even agree on whether or not to open a damn window!"

Alfred's face fell. "Is it really that bad?"

"My boy, if there's one thing I've learned in this last year, it's that one useless man is called a disgrace; two are called a law firm and three or more become a congress." Adams chuckled ruefully at his own wit, though it tapered off into a sad sort of sigh. He didn't like to puncture whatever dreams the boy had built up around his country's government, but he couldn't bring himself to lie. Besides, it had been a disappointment to him as well. He understood well and good that it was all fair, but it was so…inefficient.

Jones was still following him, staring at the toes of his boots as he dragged them across the ground. "It…It can't be that bad, right?"

"Excuse me?"

"Congress. It can't be that bad. England makes it work. I'm sure ours will, too." The boy's face held a kind of determination, as though the success of the whole venture rested as much on his shoulders as those of Congress themselves. "And it'll be better. It's got to be. Eventually, they'll come around. We've just got to keep trying until they do. It's that simple, really."

Adams paused. For a moment, Alfred's words had echoed those of his wife's most recent letter, and Abigail's voice flew through his mind. A smile finally wormed its way onto his face. "I suppose you've got a point there."

Alfred sped up a bit then, coming around to cut the older man off. He looked up at him with wide, searching eyes – young eyes, looking for answers and maybe, something more. "Mr. Adams, can I ask you a serious question?"

Adams hummed in affirmation, signaling for the boy to continue. Alfred nibbled his lip, nervously tugging at the sleeves of his coat. "Do you…do you still think that declaring independence is the right thing to do? Breaking away from England…do you think it will really work?"

Adams was quite for a moment, gripping his cane. He sighed, leaned his head back and gazed up at the stars with a distant expression. "Yes, lad. I do. With all my heart.

"When a government cares more for its profit than for its people, I believe it loses the right to govern those people. A mother nation that abandons its charge is no better than a parent who stops caring for their children; and to expect obedience in either situation is a sign of arrogance and contempt. It's only reasonable to expect the victim of such circumstance to liberate themselves and make their own way in the world, independent of their former subjugators."

Alfred was still staring at him. It occurred to Adams then that the boy, farm raised and no doubt minimally educated as his rather plan vocabulary suggested, might not understand the nuances of his ramblings. He cleared his throat. "Do you understand what I mean?"

"Yes," said Alfred with total confidence, and, despites his previous doubts, Adams believed him without question.

This Alfred Jones was an interesting creature, to say the very least. Though he was young, he did not defer to Adams as a student would his teacher, or a servant his master. Rather, it was as though John were conversing with a colleague, a fellow lawyer or elected representative. And yet, he was still fresh and bursting with the promise of youth. It was a bit like talking with Jefferson, when the Virginian was in a mood to speak on cordial terms, though quite a bit more excitable.

Adams kept the next smile somewhat private, allowing it to shine only in the solitude of his own soul as he turned to Alfred with a more subdued expression. "And what about you, Mr. Jones? Do you believe in independence?"

Alfred grinned. "I don't have to believe in it, Mr. Adams," he said. "I know it. It's what the people want. I can feel it."

Adams raised an eyebrow at that, but before he could say anything, Alfred continued, his voice bubbling with excitement.

"I really feel it, you know. All around me. Deep inside. It's like…a million little birds, all hatched and raised in the same cage but always dreaming of flying away. So they all start flying on their own, one by one, and then sometimes they take off all at once, fighting against the bars. And all you gotta do is just give them a chance – just open that little door – and they'd all be free. It'd be the most wonderful feeling in the world.

"And that's what you're doing, Mr. Adams," he turned his grin back to the older man, as bright as the rising sun. "It's gotta happen. Folks want it too bad for them not to."

In an instant, when that careful smile turned his way, John Adams was struck with an odd feeling. Alfred was not Alfred anymore, or rather, he was not _just_ Alfred anymore. In his eyes, his smiling face, Adams saw it all – the Franklin's beloved Philadelphia, Jefferson's Virginian farm, the cacophonous New York legislature, General Washington's camp and his own cherished Massachusetts home, all of it. In the eyes of Alfred F. Jones, John Adams could see the whole of the united colonies, bound together by history, destiny and passion.

And then it was gone, and Alfred was nothing more than a young man shifting around in his too-big coat and grinning like a fool.

"Well, I guess I better get going then and let you get back to work," he said, turning away. "It sure was nice talking to you, Mr. Adams. I'll see you around."

He started to leave, brushing past Adams with a definite spring in his step. Adams attempted to follow suit in the opposite direction, but only made a few steps before the words burst out of him. "Say, Alfred."

Alfred turned back. "Yeah?"

"How would you like to sit in on the Congressional meetings sometime?"

The boy's eyes lit up like little blue lamps. "You mean it? Really? Gosh, Mr. Adams, the staff at the hall said they couldn't let me in!"

"On your own, no," John moved around and patted the boy's shoulder warmly. "But as my guest, I think we can work something out. Besides, there's a young gentleman who stumbles in from Washington's camp on a regular basis, and I'm sure he and Mr. McNair would appreciate the company…"

Alfred's grin widened impossibly and he let out a whoop of triumph. He grabbed Adams's hand with both of his own and shook it vigorously, as though to do anything less would cause him to burst with excitement. "This is going to be so…so _awesome_, Mr. Adams, thank you so much!

Adams chuckled ruefully. "Just to warn you, I doubt it will be half as exciting as you seem to expect."

"Of course it will." Alfred said, his eyes gleamed with determination. He still trembled in excitement, but his voice became serious. "There's no way it couldn't be. You're making history in there."

For a moment, Adams almost thought he could see It again, but finally decided it was just his imagination.

"I'll see you tomorrow, Mr. Adams."

"I'll look forward to it, Mr. Jones."

With one last grin, the young man ran down the street, rounded a corner and disappeared from sight, still whooping and laughing with excitement. Adams watched him go, reveling a bit in the positive glow the odd young man had left behind.

And then, from the Hall down the street, there came a voice: _"Somebody open up a window!"_

"…Good _God_."

_Note: _A number of historical details in _1776_ were skewed in order to increase the drama. As the request specifically asked for a musical crossover, I have defaulted to that interpretation of the events.

Funny little non-musical historical fact – the United Colonies were not actually in rebellion to the British crown until King George III announced their uprising to Parliament in October of 1775. They had certainly done their fair share of rabble rousing up to that point, but they weren't actually pushing for independency until they heard about the King's proclamation. Way to go, George.

Pennsylvania State House – What Independence Hall was called from the time it was built to whenever they decided to rename it. Obviously, that was only after the Declaration of Independence had been signed.


	2. Overture

_**Disclaimer: **__I still don't own it. _

**Overture**

**- May 21****st****, 1776 – **

It had been roughly two weeks since they'd sent the eager Richard Henry Lee back to his 'sovereign colony' for their resolution on Independence, and Dr. Benjamin Franklin was bored.

Not that this was a particularly unusual occurrence. A great mind such as the great Benjamin Franklin was prone to boredom, especially when confined to such tedious tasks as those that went on in Congress. More so this last fortnight, what with John Adams obediently subdued by Lee's mission. Without his ranting and raving, there was hardly a murmur of interest to be found in the entire neighborhood.

Franklin was starting to miss the French court. At the very least, there were always beautiful women around to keep the restless gentlemen company.

The only thing that could really be called 'interesting' in the chambers of congress was Adams's young guest, Mr. Alfred F. Jones.

Oh yes. Franklin was _quite_ interested in that young man.

Today the boy sat, as he usually did between his rum-fetching, window-closing duties as Mr. McNair's impromptu assistant, in a small chair against the far wall just outside the cluster of desks that was Congress's meeting place. Though the proceedings for the day had long since wrapped up for lunch, her remained hunched in his seat, watching the movements of the remaining Congressmen – particularly President Hancock, Jefferson and Adams – iron out the details of their various discussions.

Franklin made his way over to the boy with a slight spring in his step, swinging his walking stick around to tap the leg of the chair. "Mr. Jones, was it?"

"Ah…Dr. Franklin!" Alfred popped up, a big grin on his face. "What can I do for you, sir?"

Franklin looked the boy up and down, admiring the spirit and innate promise of youth. Alfred was tall and strong and had a face that shown like the rising sun with every smile. Like John, he was impatient for independence and longed to see their dream achieved with every fiber of his being.

With a slight grin, Franklin motioned to the boy. "Walk would me, would you please, Mr. Jones?"

"Um…sure," Alfred shrugged and followed the wise old doctor out of the State House.

They trotted down the streets of Philadelphia with only the occasional word between them; Franklin occasionally mentioned the weather or pointed out a lovely young thing, but Alfred seemed to be more in awe of the great doctor himself than of the sights.

Finally, after almost an hour of aimless walking, they found themselves in a blocked-off back alley with no progress made on their conversation. Alfred turned to Franklin with a confused expression, shifting anxiously with the desire to get back into Congress. "Dr. Franklin, if you don't mind my asking, why did you call me out here?"

"Why, to talk to you of course, dear boy."

"Well, okay, but…talk about what?"

Franklin stopped then and turned to the boy with a kind but knowing smile. "I was wondering if you wouldn't mind telling me your name."

The youth was surprised. "But you already know that, I'm Alfred F…"

"Not your human name. Your i_real/i_ name."

Alfred suddenly looked as though a frog had just jumped down his throat. He swallowed heavily twice before he finally managed to speak again, and even then, it was only in a strangled croak. "Wh-What do you mean, Dr. F-Franklin?"

"You can't fool me," Franklin laughed, sinking back on his walking stick to sit on an abandoned crate. "I'm an old man, Alfred Jones, and I've seen a lot in my time. But of everything I have encountered, nothing has ever been quite so curious as Your Kind."

His last words put particular emphasis on the capital letters, enunciating the title. Alfred shifted uncertainly under his bespectacled gaze. "I'm not really sure what you mean."

"I've met a young man like you before, you know," Franklin chuckled, leaning back against the wall with a dreamy expression. "He's a regular at society gatherings amongst the French aristocracy, and has served at the side of their royal family for as long as I've had the pleasure of their acquaintance. And, though it has been over a decades since my blessed inception into their circles, he has never seemed to age a day."

Alfred's eyes widened, and his eyebrows leapt to his hairline, but the surprise was less about the man's apparent eternal youth, but the fact that he recognized who Franklin was talking about.

Franklin's grin widened at this, and he continued on with a dismissive flip of his hand. "Of course, the one I met most often in my youth was a rather grumpy fellow who's spent most of the thirty years I've observed him sulking around the British parliament. I had the pleasure of sharing a ship with him on one of many returns to these colonial shores. A rather poor conversationalist, all things considered, but not bad at chess. Introduced himself as Mr. Kirkland."

"You've met England?!"

Franklin laughed out loud at as Alfred clapped his hands over his mouth, turning red over his slip and glancing around as though he'd just blurted the greatest secret of all time. The doctor braced his walking stick against the ground and pushed to his feet, smiling up at the young man amiably.

"So then, Mr. Jones," he said simply, tapping the wooden stick against the hard ground. "Would you care to answer my original question now?"

Alfred was quiet a moment, staring at toe of his boot. Then he straightened, swept his hair out of his eyes with one hand and grinned. "America."

Franklin nodded sagely and heaved a small sigh. "And here I thought we were giving _birth_ to a new nation in that stuffy little room."

Alfred – _America – _laughed awkwardly and rubbed the back of his neck. Franklin nodded to himself, amused with his personal joke, and patted the boy's arm like a proud grandfather.

"You're a fine young man," he said with a smile, "and there's a lot of potential in you. I look forward to seeing where you go once we've gotten you out from under England's roof for good and all."

"Gee, thanks, Dr. Franklin," Alfred said, still rubbing his neck in a way that was going to chafe if he kept it up for too long. "But don'tcha think that we better be getting back to Congress now?"

"Nonsense. It's not as though anything of note is going to occur until Lee returns anyway." Franklin adjusted his suit coat, tossed his walking stick in the air merrily and strutted out of their secluded little nook like a cock on patrol for a hen. "As long as we're out in the heat of the day, I say we have a little fun. Hard-working men such as ourselves deserve it, after all!"

The two spent the rest of a somewhat awkward afternoon charming every young female shopper that they happened to meet in the Philadelphia market place. That is to say that Franklin did his damnedest to sweep them off their feet with his charm, wit and general celebrity, which worked quite well all things considered, while Alfred was left floundering on the sidelines without a clue about how to talk with any of the ladies who were so enraptured by his 'rugged, golden good looks.'

By the end of the day (when a fairly irate John Adams turned up demanding that Franklin do _something_ about 'that git Dickenson') Franklin had decided that, if nothing else could be said of his new nation, he was at least a much more pleasant companion than England had ever been.

Alfred, on the other hand, was merely left with a finite understanding of just why France and Franklin got along so well.

_**Notes:**_ Benjamin Franklin was a great thinker, diplomat and inventor. He also happened to be quite the lecher. Pardon if any of this portion seems overly creepy because of that. (Really, though, he's no worse than his old buddy France…)

The man really was ridiculously popular in France (they sold collectables of him! Like 18th-century action figures!) Admittedly, he only began traveling to France in the 1760s and didn't become ambassador until half a year after the Declaration was signed, but the man is nothing if not observant, so I think he'd pick up on Francis's unnatural longevity even after only a decade


	3. He Plays the Violin

_**Disclaimer: **__Still don't own. _

**He Plays the Violin **

**- June 12, 1776 – **

Thomas Jefferson was a southern gentleman and, as such, he had received a proper southern gentleman's education. From a young age, he had learned to read and write better than most common men could speak and received extensive tutoring in mathematics, economics, sciences and history. But his favorite lessons, without fail, had always been in music.

Jefferson loved his violin. It had been his constant companion since his fourteenth year and, whether he found himself burdened with stress or bursting with joy, it was always there to give voice to his emotions.

Today the sound was light and happy. He had been reunited with his beloved Martha after six long months of separation, and her presence brightened even the dank, sequestered apartment he was confined to as he labored over the much-anticipated (and already reviled) Declaration of Independence.

His music dipped into a deeper, richer tone as his thoughts switched to the document at hand. He needed to find his inspiration again, his passion for the cause. Independence. Freedom. Striking away from the British oppressor. It was that cause that had brought him out here, away from his home and his darling wife, it was the cause that was worth the young lives surrendered on the battlefield. Yes, that was his cause, he could see it clearly once more, and that revelation was reflected in the final swell of his music, fading slowly back into comfortable silence.

"Wow. That was lovely."

Jefferson stopped, lifting his bow from the strings. The young man who had spoken was standing in the open door of his apartment, one hand resting on the doorframe, staring with wide blue eyes and a broad smile. Jefferson lowered his treasured instrument carefully. "Mr. Jones. I thought I closed that door."

"Ah, you did," Alfred Jones rubbed the back of his neck awkwardly, stepping into the apartment. "I mean, it was closed when I got up here. I knocked! I swear I did, but I don't think you could hear me, so I just, you know."

He shrugged. Jefferson waved him off. "It's all right. Come on in. What can I do for you?"

"Mr. Adams asked me to come over and check on the Declaration," Alfred piped. He was always such an eager boy, and hardly seemed to notice the exasperated expression that passed over Jefferson's face. "He would've come over himself, but him and Mr. Dickenson have been arguing all morning and it doesn't look like they're going to let up any time soon."

Jefferson shook his head with a sigh. Adams and Dickenson, always Adams and Dickenson. What a pair. No one could talk sense into anything when those two got at it. "I suppose that will last for the rest of the day. Do have a seat, Jones, it was a long walk."

"Gee, thanks," Alfred said, settling into the small arm chair that Jefferson had indicated. The brief moment of relief that flashed over his face betrayed the exhaustion that had been gnawing at his body, but it was replaced quickly enough by his usual smile. "And heh, yeah, that's what Dr. Franklin said too. Those two really don't get along at all, do they?"

Jefferson shrugged in response and returned to his writing desk, setting his violin down safely on the edge of his bed. Unlike the bright and talkative Mr. Jones, who was always ready brightened up the downtime between the congressional proceedings with almost non-stop conversation, Jefferson was not a particular vocal man. He preferred to let his writing speak for him, the carefully chosen written word expressing his longings and desires a hundred times better than any spoken syllable.

Alfred pulled up one leg coquettishly, leaning his head against his knee and blinking up at Jefferson with wide, expectant eyes. "So…What _have_ you got so far? On the Declaration, I mean."

Sighing, Jefferson shifted through the papers on his desk, drawing out the tattered page that held the portion of the manuscript that had, so far, met with his comrades' approval.

"When in the course of human events," he read aloud, not wanting to embarrass the boy if he didn't know how to read, "it becomes necessary for one people to dissolve the political bands which have connected them with another and to assume among the powers of the earth, the separate and equal station to which the Laws of Nature and of Nature's God entitle them, a descent respect to the opinions of mankind requires that they should declare the causes which impel them to separation."

Alfred blinked at him, turning his head to the side in confusion. "Well, it sure sounds pretty, Mr. Jefferson, but I don't really get it."

"I expected as much," Jefferson said with a small shake of his head. "It just means that we're declaring our independence, and we're going to tell them exactly why because it's only polite to do so before we leave."

"Oh. Well, why couldn't you just say that?"

Jefferson smiled. "Because the British parliament has proven that they will never take our complaints seriously unless they are expressed with the utmost elegance. They're rather stuffy that way."

"Yeah, that sounds like England all right," Alfred said, and laughed heartily. It was a pleasant sound, Jefferson decided, even more so than usual laughter. It was a bit like the music his brother, Randolph, loved to play on his 'fiddle' as he chose to call it; bright and fresh and not quite like anything the world had heard before.

"So what's the fiddle for?" Alfred asked suddenly, pointing to Jefferson's prized instrument.

"I don't 'fiddle,' Mr. Jones, it's a _violin,_" Jefferson responded with a slight scold in his tone, not much different from the way the tutors used to school Randolph for his use of the vernacular. "And its current purpose is inspiration. I use it to connect to the proper emotions so that I may better express them in the written word."

Alfred looked incredulous. "Inspiration?"

"Yes. Music is a window to the soul, after all."

"I thought that's what they said about people's eyes," said Alfred, and yawned.

Jefferson raised a slim eyebrow at that. "You sound tired."

"Do I?" Alfred asked, and yawned again before he could help it. "Oh. Guess I do. Sorry 'bout that, Mr. Jefferson. It's just that I was up most of the night with Mr. McNair, cleaning. Then we had to get up really early to get everything set up for Congress, so I decided it was easier to just not go to sleep."

"That's not healthy for a boy your age."

"I'm fine," muttered Alfred, leaning into the cushions of the chair. "And I'm not a boy."

Jefferson hummed noncommittally at that. It was clear enough that the poor boy was on his last legs – he was beginning to suspect that the sleepless night had been preceded by at least one other day of minimal rest. With that in mind, he picked up his violin once more and began to play a lullaby.

Soon enough, the low, sweet tones began to do their job, lulling the teen into a doze. His blue eyes flickered close and he curled into the comfort of the chair, resting his head against the cushions. Slowly, whatever defenses he had built up to protect himself slipped away, vanishing as quickly as his consciousness.

Jefferson was surprised at the sudden wave of emotion that had overcome him. He'd wanted to help this boy, as friend to friend, in any small way that he could, but had not expected something like this. It was as though he was watching over his own child, a being so infinitely important and precious that his peace of mind was worth sacrificing for. He kept playing long after he had intended, looping the song around three full times with the determination that Alfred Jones be allowed to rest.

Alfred smiled sleepily and offered on last, tired comment before he slipped all the way. "Digging for inspiration again, Mr. Jefferson?"

"Indeed."

Jefferson set his violin to the side, remaining seated and silent for a moment to watch the boy sleep. Quietly, he moved to the chest at the foot of his bed and drew out a light quilt, which he laid over the sleeping form. Then he returned to the desk, dipped his quill in the ink and began to write once more.

**( - )**

"Thomas?"

"I'm here, Martha."

Jefferson's young wife hurried to the top of the stairs with a spring in her step, bearing the packages of her shopping in her arms. Virginia or Pennsylvania, she was determined to enjoy her time with her husband to the fullest. The last year of separation had been hard on them, as she was sure it had to be for all the Congressional wives. But now they were together again, and they would make the most of it, starting with a nice mid-day meal.

When she arrived at their apartment, however, she was surprised to find that her husband was not alone.

A young man, barely more than a boy, was asleep in the armchair in the far corner of the room. A spare quilt had been tucked around his curled form. Thomas sat at his writing desk half a room away, his ink bottle almost spent, still scratching away at a new stack of papers that Martha was quite certain had not been there before.

Martha glanced between her husband and the visitor cautiously before she moved to set their groceries on the table. "Thomas, who is that?"

"His name is Alfred Jones," Thomas explained, his voice quiet so as not to disturb the slumbering teen. "He's a custodial assistant at the Hall, sent on errand. As you can see, they've been rather overworking him, so I thought he could use the rest. You don't mind, do you?"

"Of course not," said Martha with a bit of amusement in her voice. She had always known that Thomas had a soft spot, but it was rare to see it displayed so openly. She crept across the room with silent steps, lifting one of the pages off the top of her husband's stack. "'We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal, that they are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable Rights, that among these are Life, Liberty and the Pursuit of Happiness…' Oh, Thomas, that's lovely."

"Isn't it though?" Thomas said with a small, unreadable smile. "It's the funniest thing, but I've found myself rather inspired today."

"That's so wonderful to hear," Martha said, and leaned down to steal a quick kiss. "You just keep on working, then, and I'll get some lunch ready. For three, of course."

"Yes…Yes, of course. Thank you, dear."

Martha beamed, squeezing her husband's shoulder as she straightened. As quietly as a church mouse, she tip-toed across the room to their sleeping visitor. For just a moment, she was taken aback by just how handsome he was, with his golden hair and flawless skin and his face so peaceful in the bliss of sleep. She smiled, tucked him in and prayed to Providence that her children would be equally blessed and beautiful.

"Such a lovely boy," she sighed, brushing the golden bangs back just long enough to plant a small, motherly kiss on his forehead. "Sleep well, Mr. Jones. Sleep well."

_**Notes: **_Both Thomas Jefferson and his younger brother Randolph were taught to read music and play the violin as part of the education. However, while Thomas preferred the classics, Randolph preferred 'the vernacular idiom.' Some stories say that he would go down among the family slaves, play the fiddle and dance for half the night.


	4. Cool, Cool, Considerate Men

_**Disclaimer: **__At this point, I'm only putting this here because the top of the page looks funny without one. I'm sure you realize I don't own this. Where would the fun be if I did? _

**Cool, Cool, Considerate Men**

"_Stupid, ungrateful little wretch_!"

_The words burned Alfred's heart almost as sharply as the accompanying slap burned his cheek. Arthur was smaller than him now, he had been for decades, but he was filled with the power of the world's mightiest empire. Now that power was consumed in a burning fury, disgust and anger overflowing as he gazed at who the child he'd raised had become. _

"_You've always been stubborn one, and reckless and irritable. But this! This…rabble-rousing! This lawlessness! I never imagined! All that tea…!"_

_Alfred mumbled something under his breath. Arthur gave him a sharp look. "What did you say?"_

"_I said, 'I hate tea,'" Alfred spat. "It's stupid and gross and overpriced even without your damn taxes. Boston was right to throw it all out and I'm not apologizing for anything they did. No one will, so just get over it and give us back our damn port and quit acting like I killed your fucking queen."_

_Arthur turned red. "Need I remind you that Charlotte is your queen as well?"_

"_Like hell she is."_

_Arthur struck him again, across the other cheek this time. A light gasp reached Alfred's ear – he knew that Matthew, his twin, was crouched just outside the door to Arthur's study, peaking in through the crack and listening to every word. Once this was over and Arthur had disappeared into his paperwork or the local pub, Matthew would take Alfred aside and talk with him about angering their father figure. In his quiet way, he would make Alfred feel guilty for causing trouble in their family, just like he had every time before. _

_In that moment, Alfred hated them. He hated Mattie and his simpering fealty, always willing to roll over and fetch slippers at any command. He hated the British, their military, their soldiers, especially the ones who were living in his lands, barging into his peoples' homes with their claims of protection and their Quartering Act. He hated the Acts, their stupid restrictions, the parliament that had passed them and the King who had signed them. And he hated Arthur. _

_God, he hated Arthur. _

"_I don't know how you got these idiotic, treasonous ideas into your head, but we're putting a stop to it here and now!" Arthur fumed, his blood pressure rising further when he realized that his charge wasn't even looking at him, and hadn't been through the entirety of his ten-minute triad. "Are you listening to me, Alfred?"_

_Alfred looked his 'big brother' directly in the eye and told the god-honest truth without a hint of regret. "No."_

_Arthur's face went from red to purple. His hand shot into the air again, but Alfred caught his wrist in mid-swing. The old nation stared at his ward in shock, the newest reprimands dying on his lips. Out in the hall, Matthew sounded like he'd just swallowed his own tongue. _

"_What…What are you doing?!" Arthur demanded, pulling at Alfred's arm. It's a useless endeavor, given Alfred's freakish strength, but he'd be damned if he didn't try. "Let go! Blast you, you think you can raise a hand against me?!"_

"_Why not? You do it to me often enough." _

_Arthur yanked his other hand up for a second attack, but it too was caught before it could meet its target. With a shove, Alfred pushed his father-figure back until the edge of his desk was digging into the small of the elder nation's back. Arthur winced as though the action hurt. Alfred sincerely hoped that was the case. _

"_No. No more of that. Not ever again_,_" he growled, his voice dropping into a dangerous, low tone. "No more lectures, or slaps, or taxes or blockades. This time, Arthur, you're going to listen to _me. _I'm not some child you can push around anymore. You can't just stop by whenever you feel like it and expect me to fall into line. My people aren't here to fund another of your stupid arguments with Francis. This is our land, our home. Ours, not yours!"_

_Arthur was livid, his face a molted patchwork of a dozen different red-violet shades. His eyebrows had risen up so high that they were hiding in his hairline. _

"_You…You think you can talk to me that way?!" he exclaimed. "I raised you!"_

"_And I've out-grown you!"_

_Alfred gave his mentor another hard shove, toppling him backward over the desk. As Arthur disappeared beneath a mountain of fallen paperwork and overturned furniture, Alfred spun on his heel and ran. Matthew was thrown to the side as his brother burst through the study door, leaving him half-dazed on the floor and calling, "Alfred!"_

_But he didn't listen, and the calls were lost on the wind as he ran from their home into the dark, welcoming night. _

**- June 23, 1776 - **

Alfred Jones burst awake with a gasp, jerking up from the desk on which he had been lying. Andrew McNair, the congressional custodian and his current supervisor, glanced at him in concern. "You all right, boy?"

Alfred took a deep breath and held it for a five-count before he responded. "F-Fine. I'm fine, Mr. McNair."

The old man was disbelieving, but let it go, patting the boy's shoulder as he walked by. It was a warm, lazy day, and Congress was quiet – it had been so since John Adams and Ben Franklin had left for New Brunswick with Samuel Chase of Maryland to prove that the Continental Army stood a chance against the British forces. Thomas Jefferson had been locked away in his apartment for the last few weeks, laboring over the proposed Declaration of Independence under the insistence of Adams, Franklin and the rest of the Declaration Committee. The other supporters of independency were likewise absent, dealing with their own problems.

Alfred missed their company. As fine a man as Mr. McNair was, he couldn't match the lively conversation skills of congress's rabble rousers. Talk of independence and glory and freedom was just what Alfred needed to keep his mind off the old days. Off of Arthur.

He groaned, raking his fingers through his hair. Of all the things, why did he have to dream about _that_ night? It had been three years since he'd left Arthur's colonial home, and he hadn't been back there – or to his own house – since. He'd spent the three years in between traveling from one colony to another, find room and board where he could and avoiding all contact with his brothers like the plague. Mattie had come looking for him once or twice (on Arthur's orders, of course, god, sometimes he couldn't tell which one was the bigger coward), but Alfred had given him the slip until he finally gave up.

Matthew, he decided, was to blame for the blasted dream. Or rather, Matthew's _letters_ were to blame.

Alfred scowled at the packet of letters that had been mostly squashed under his elbow as he slept. There was a little more than a dozen of them, presumably delivered to his house in Virginia over the last two years. They had been dutifully collected for him by his neighbor, the head of a nice but staunchly royalist family that England had always asked to look out for the young colony when he went away.

Apparently, the man had learned of Alfred's current location from the newly-appointed governor Lee – Richard Henry _goddamn_ Lee – and forwarded them to the State House.

Now Alfred sat at his little writing desk with a neat stack of envelopes tied together with a simple bit of red string. All bore his address, written neatly in the familiar handwriting of his brother, and all were sealed with the mark of a maple leaf, which was quickly becoming Matthew's preferred symbol.

Alfred sighed and turned the stack of letters over in his hands. It had been a while since he'd last seen his brother, and much longer since he had communicated with him in any way. He could only imagine what was written in these letters. A part of him was too afraid to find out.

Most of the time, Alfred didn't miss his 'family.' They were controlling and manipulating and things had been so bad between them that he was thankful to finally be on his own, in his own country, making his own rules. He _liked_ his freedom, thank you very much. Often, there were days, weeks, months that passed without a single thought for either of his brothers crossing his mind.

And then there were days like today when missed them something horrible.

"Mr. McNair?" A voice called from the center of the room. It was John Dickenson of Pennsylvania, the unspoken leader of the congressional conservatives, looking painfully smug as always. "Would you mind opening up a window for us?"

"Again?"

"I'll get it, sir," Alfred volunteered, and hopped up to fetch the stick needed to pull the windows open and closed. He shoved the letters away in his coat pocket, resolving to read them later. Or maybe he would just burn them.

Alfred felt Dickenson's eyes on him as he moved from window to window, but did his very best to ignore him. He wasn't particularly fond of Mr. Dickenson, probably because Alfred tended to side with Adams in most of their debates. Dickenson was not the sort of everyday man whose company Alfred usually preferred. He wasn't even a scholar like Franklin, or an educated aristocrat like Jefferson. He was a…_landlord_.

Unfortunately, it seemed that today, their confrontation was inevitable. As Alfred passed by to replace the window pole, Dickenson grabbed him by the elbow.

"Mr. Jones, would you care to sit with us a while?" he asked in a presumptuous tone that made clear Alfred had little choice. "I've been hoping to have a few words with you, away from Mr. Adams."

Alfred suppressed a sigh. McNair was waving him off, with the well-known expression that it was 'too damn hot to work.' "As you wish, Mr. Dickenson."

He sat down, reluctantly, in the seat that normally belonged to Franklin. Dickenson and the third Pennsylvanian delegate, Judge James Wilson, were in their designated seats, turned to face him. Alfred found himself squirming a bit under their gazes.

"I hope you don't find me rude for asking this," Dickenson started, though the flippant wave of his hand spelled out the fact that he didn't really care if he was being rude or not, "but over the last month, your accent has rather perplexed me. Try as I might, I just can't seem to place it. Tell me, where are you from?"

Alfred shrugged. "Around."

"What _colony_, dear boy?"

"All of them."

Dickenson raised an eyebrow at that. Alfred met his gaze levelly. Normally, he would have made something up – that he was a Pennsylvanian native like they were, or talk about his house in Virginia – but he didn't really feel like playing around today. All of the colonies were a part of him. Why should he deny it?

"Mr. Jones," Dickenson said slowly, testing the unknown and unusual waters of the boy's strange response. "Even if you've been on the road for several years, surely you must, ah, 'originated' from a specific location?"

Alfred shrugged again. "Not that I'm aware of."

Dickenson frowned, leaning across his walking stick pointedly. "Come now, there's no reason to be defensive."

"I'm not being defensive."

Dickenson hummed to himself and exchanged a Look with Wilson. Then he shrugged, picking up his mug of rum from the table. "If you say so, Mr. Jones."

Alfred remained quiet as the delegate sipped his drink. This conversation was starting to remind him of his much-loathed 'tea times' with Arthur, back when they had only just begun to quarrel. The refined gentleman would skirt around the real issue and spend long periods of time stewing Alfred in his own thoughts. He wondered why on earth these supposedly 'cool and considerate men' couldn't just hold a discussion like everyone else in the world.

"I must say, Mr. Jones, we find ourselves in a bit of an odd predicament, you and I," Dickenson finally continued after he had drunk his fill for the moment. "Were you any other young man, I would ask for your opinion on the issue of Independence. But I suppose your friendship with Adams makes your position apparent enough. Still, I am baffled as to why a promising young man such as yourself would so eagerly queue up to be hung as a traitor."

Alfred mumbled something under his breath. Dickenson raised an eyebrow. "I beg your pardon?"

"I said, we're not traitors yet," Alfred repeated, softly but clearly this time. "Dr. Franklin says, 'traitor is a word created by the winners as an excuse to hang the losers,' and we haven' t lost yet, so we can't be traitors."

Dickenson laughed. "Oh, that Franklin. Such a clever old rascal sometimes, don't you agree, James?"

"Well, yes, though in this case –"

"In this case, Mr. Jones, I'm afraid the good doctor is being a tad bit more colloquial than factual," Dickenson went on, paying no mind to the fact that he had just cut Wilson off. "As far as the _law_ is concerned, a traitor is a man who raises his hand against the nation who bore him and turns his back on every good thing that nation has ever done for him, no matter what personal grievance he uses to justify his actions."

Alfred bristled at that, all the hair on the back of his neck standing on end. He knew that Dickenson was talking metaphorically about the people in the independence movement – about the Adams family, John and his cousin Samuel, and others, like the Sons of Liberty who had led the charge at the Boston Tea Party – but a literal interpretation struck a bit too close to home.

Arthur's face flashed through his mind. The face from his dream, his memory, in the moment he thought to fight back. Disbelief, fury, betrayal…

No. Block it out. _Block it out._

"Jones? Are you all right?"

Alfred shook himself out of his thoughts, giving the forgettable Judge Wilson a sidewise glance. "Fine," he muttered through a scowl. "I'm fine."

"It seems you disagree with me," said Dickenson smugly. "But I trust you see the validity in my point?"

Alfred shrugged again, stubbornly unwilling to concede the round. He rested an arm on the desk and gripped its edge with his fingers, unconsciously betraying his own anxiety. Dickenson hummed to himself and sipped his rum with an exceedingly smug expression.

"I don't really expect you to understand the finesse of this issue, Mr. Jones," he chuckled. "What with all the time you've listening to Adams, his moods and tempers raging at all levels of fury like an ungrateful child."

That brought another bristle from Alfred. "Ungrateful?"

"Yes. For the gifts and protection that our mother nation has provided this continent for centuries."

Alfred was quiet again, pressing the knuckles of his hand against his mouth. He stewed over Dickenson's words, slowly composing and argument of his own.

"All right then, Mr. Dickenson, how 'bout you tell me this," he finally spoke up, his voice rising slightly with the confidence of his argument. "If a child grows up and decides to leave their parents' home, would you consider that child to be…ungrateful?"

"Of course not. It's only to be expected."

"Then why is it any different for this country?"

Dickenson set down his now-empty mug with a metallic _clank_, leaning across the tiny space between them until his nose was almost brushing the boy's. He was not drunk, but Alfred could smell the Jamaican rum on his breath even though he knew it had been watered down.

"Because these _colonies_ are not a child. They are not a united, autonomous creature capable of its own decisions and self-reliance. 'They' are a loosely-joined confederation of territorial properties joined only by their positions on a map. It is not possible for such a union to exist without the support of its mother nation."

_Crunch._

The wood of the desk that Alfred had been gripping snapped in two, the entire overhanging edge coming off in his hand. A storm of splinters tumbled to the floor as the three conversationalists and everyone else in the meeting room stared at the odd sight – Alfred in numb curiosity, everyone else in shock.

Alfred swallowed. It had been a long time – half a century at least – since he had lost control of his strength like that. Obviously, he needed to get his head on straight, before he did something he regretted.

"Cheap…cheap wood, huh?" he said, placing the broken piece the remaining desk with care.

"It seems so," Dickenson muttered, his eyes on the boy's hand.

Alfred cleared his throat, pushing away from the desk. "I'll get a replacement from one of the other rooms."

"I suppose this means our conversation is complete, then?"

Alfred paused in mid-step, gripping his hands into fists. "I suppose so, _sir._"

"Very well, then," Dickenson sighed, setting his rum to the side with a small clink. Alfred could feel the man's gaze on his back, probing and critical. "Say what you will about my position, Mr. Jones, but I shan't change it. I love this country more than I can say. And I will do everything I can to prevent this treasonous mistake, even if I have to fight tooth and nail until the end."

Alfred pressed a hand over his pocket. The weight of Mattie's letters made a strange talisman of calm and protection. Even though he didn't know their contents, their very presence steeled his resolve.

"Then I'll just have to do the same."

_**TBC…**_

**Notes: **It should be noted here that John Dickenson of the musical and the John Dickenson of history are very different people. They had the same point of view – that the country was not ready for independence – but for different reasons. The historical Dickenson believed that America should complete the Articles of Confederation (which preceded the Constitution) and secure foreign alliance before making a declaration. He remained quiet throughout the debates and absented himself from both the voting and the signing of the Declaration of Independence. He shared his musical counterpart's reaction to the events, though – he left congress to join the Pennsylvania Militia.

This chapter was actually pretty tough for me, because it's an important part of the musical that Dickenson's argument be persuasive. I hope that was communicated well enough.


	5. Yours, Yours, Yours

_**Disclaimer: **__Still not mine. I love this chapter._

**Yours, Yours, Yours**

**- July 2, 1776 -**

Alfred F. Jones sat alone in the bell tower of the Pennsylvania State House in the early morning hours, lost in his thoughts. His brother's letters lay open and scattered across his lap, the windowsill he sat on and the floor beside his feet. The candle he had read them by had long since burned itself away into a lifeless stub of wax, but the written words echoed around the dull, numb cavern of disbelief that used to be his brain.

The entire South had walked out of Congress today.

The _entire_ South.

Alfred groaned, leaning back against the windowsill until his head thumped heavily against the wood. An entire third of Congress, his entire lower third, had walked out over one passage in the Declaration. Over slavery. Already, he could feel his heart breaking at the thought, split between the wellbeing of his Southern economy and the natural rights of a million precious souls. This issue, he knew, would divide him someday.

If it didn't kill him now.

He sighed, lifting a letter from his lap. His wrists felt heavy with the weight of ghostly chains – sympathy for those for whom Jefferson and Adams had argued so fiercely, or an imagined symbol of his own unwilling bond to England? He didn't know. His fingers traced over the raised edges of the broken maple leaf seal, his brother's seal.

Matthews letters had been full, not of the accusations and anger he had been expecting, but of soft words and affectionate coaxing. It reminded him of a time before fighting had become a constant, but after Arthur's presence in their day-to-day lives began to diminish. Back then, Matthew had been his only real companion, his most loyal friend and his most trusted confidant. Not that Alfred had needed a confidant much in those days…

"Oh, really? C'mon, Al, you _always _used to come with me for advice."

Alfred looked up at that. In the gloom, he could almost make out his brother, sitting across from him. Matthew smiled at him, violet eyes matching the gloomy clouds that drifted through the dark pre-dawn sky. "That was before you hated me."

"I don't hate you, Al," Matthew insisted, his gaze softening even more.

"Yeah, right," Alfred rolled his eyes. "Give me a break. The last time we met, you spent most of the conversation dictating every one of my personal faults in excruciating detail. It took you two hours."

"Well, the time before that, you called me a coward and then ran off with _my_ horse," Matthew shot back, though his tone was more playful than accusing. "Besides, they were meant with affection. All I really wanted was for you to come home."

"Affection?" Alfred laughed. "The fact that I'm stubborn and pig-headed?"

"A compliment. You never back down."

"That I'm rebel-rousing and belligerent?"

"A…cultural quirk."

"That I have no taste in food?"

Matthew was quite for a moment. Then he sighed. "Well, there you have me, Al. I'm afraid you don't have any taste in food. In your defense, though, you got it from Arthur."

Alfred grinned a bit at that. "Yeah, well, I picked up a lot of stupid things from Arthur."

The conversation trailed off then, and the smile slowly slipped off his face as he thought about their mentor. In the drafty, confined bell tower, the silence was oppressive. Alfred sighed and let his head hang, staring at his lap and the letters that lay there.

"Why did you side with him, Matt?" he asked quietly, not looking his brother in the eye. "We're brothers. _Blood_ brothers. Why did you abandon me?"

"Alfred, you were the one who attacked me."

"That wasn't an attack!" Alfred insisted, snapping his head up. "No, no, that was a _rescue_ mission."

Matthew snorted. "Oh, really? Rescuing who?"

"You! From Arthur!"

"I don't need rescuing," Matthew said, lifting his arms to show that his wrists were pointedly free of chain. "I'm not a prisoner."

Alfred swallowed, and the invisible, imaginary weight around his own wrists growing heavier at the thought. The words that Caesar Rodney had shouted in Congress almost a month before echoed through his head as clearly as though they had just been spoken: _"England, closing in! Cutting off our air! There's no time!"_

"Don't try to fool yourself, Al," Matthew continued softly, pulling Alfred back to the presence. "You weren't worried about me. You just wanted someone to rebel with you, somebody to back you up. But you didn't have to go and do something silly like that. Really, Alfred, didn't it ever occur to you to _ask_?"

Alfred bit his lip, falling back against the windowsill again. He closed his eyes and counted the seconds it took for each breath. Four seconds in. Five out. He swallowed his pride.

"…Come with me, Mattie. Please."

Matthew smiled. "Thank you, Al. But I can't."

"Mattie!"

"I'm just not like you," Matthew said with a shake of his head. "I'm happy the way I am. I'm not ready to break my ties with Europe yet. Maybe I never will be. Maybe I'm just not strong enough. But maybe you are. And if this is what you really want, if it's really that important to you…then it's worth fighting for, isn't it?"

Alfred gripped his hands into fists. "Of course it is."

"It's worth going against the world's greatest empire? Against an army you can't hope to beat? Against _Arthur_?"

"Yes, yes and hell yes."

"Then isn't it worth fighting through this thing with the south?"

_SLAM!_

An echoing bang from downstairs, that of a heavy door slamming shut, startled Alfred out of his thoughts. It was quickly followed by the sound of footsteps climbing the final flight of stars. Baffled, Alfred looked around and found himself very much alone in the dark, drafty little bell tower.

There was a light from the stairwell, bobbing up and down with every echoing step. A candle. Alfred narrowed his eyes at it cautiously. "Matthew?"

"Alfred?" It was John Adams.

The Bostonian looked tired, drawn and older than forty one by a number of years. He paused at the top of the stairs, one foot on the bell tower landing, and seemed surprised at the presence of another conscious being at this ungodly hour. "What are you doing up here?"

Alfred looked at him, then to his scattered letters. "Ah…nothing, Mr. Adams. Just talking to myself."

"I see." Adams knelt carefully, lifting a letter up into the light of his own candle. "Who is Matthew?"

"My brother," Alfred sighed, beginning to gather the papers together. "We're…well, we look the same, so we kind of assume we're twins. As far as we know, at least."

"I see," Adams returned the letter and gathered up a few others before leaning against the wall beside the window. "That's quite a bit of communication there. Are you two close?"

Alfred shrugged, stacking the letters up to be bound. "We used to be."

Adams frowned at that, setting the candle to the side where it would still provide light without risking an accident. "It certainly seems like he thinks of you often still. Have you gone to see him recently?"

"No. And I don't think I ever will again."

Adam's eyebrows leapt to his hairline. "Why on earth not?"

Alfred gazed at the man steadily, his face serious and his eyes narrowed. "I love my brother," he said with determination. "But I want my independence more."

The sun chose that moment to peak over the horizon, filling the dark and gloomy streets of Philadelphia with the first bright, golden light of day. It danced through the highlights of Alfred's hair like a fire through a field of summer wheat, glancing off the blue of his eyes with all the brilliance of ocean meeting the southern coast.

It was like that night on the street, the night they had first met, only _more_. The boy was no longer a boy. He wasn't even Alfred Jones. He was everything. Everyone. The entirety of the United Colonies –the entire continent, no, not quite, but almost – boiled down to a single common denominator. A single person.

"Good god," whispered John Adams. "What are you?"

"I'm America."

"…Good _god_."

Adams sank into the windowsill with numb disbelief, hardly able to comprehend what he knew in his heart to be the truth. Alfred Jones looked at him a moment, then turned his eyes to the rising sun and the city of Philadelphia. They were silent for a long while, watching the sky turn from red to orange to blue as easily as an artist mixing paint. Then, finally, Alfred spoke. "Today's the day, isn't it?"

"The day?" Adams asked, still somewhat numb and unresponsive.

"The day that Congress votes on independence."

Adams swallowed hard. He stood, straightening his ruffled coat and following the boy's gaze over the city. "Yes. Yes, I suppose it is. It all comes down to this."

Alfred tightened the grip of his fists until his knuckles turned white and his hands began to shake with the tension.

"I want this." he muttered, as much to reaffirm himself as to connect with Mr. Adams. "More than I've ever wanted anything, I want this. I want to be _free_."

With a bit of uncertainty, Adams rested a hand on the boy's – on his _country's_ – shoulder. "So do I, lad. So do I."

**To be concluded…**


	6. Finale

_**Disclaimer:**__ Still not mine. Enjoy the final act and please remember to leave a review. _

**Finale**

**- July 4****th****, 1776 - **

"That's an awful large signature there, Johnny!"

Congressional President John Hancock grinned and straightened, dropping the quill pen he had used to sign the newly-minted American Declaration of Independence back into the inkpot. "It's so fat George in London can see it without his reading glasses."

The gathered delegates of Congress howled with laughter, and Alfred Jones joined in. After all the stress and aggravation of the last few days – the debates, the alterations, the demanding and posturing, the endless conflict – it felt good to just let it all come bubbling out with the laughter.

They had plenty to laugh and be happy about, after all. It was all finally over. The resolution on American Independence was finally adopted. Now, all they had to do was sign the Declaration, and it would be official.

America would finally be free.

Of course, that wasn't to say that everything was perfect. Not by a long shot. They still had a long way to go – General Washington's last dispatch, with its grim tidings and sorrowful predictions for the upcoming loss of life. And that battle was just the first of many. Alfred knew better than anyone that England would not let these United Colonies – these United _States_ – go without a fight.

But even that was all right, he thought as he patted the letters folded tight against his chest. He would be out there soon, on the battlefield alongside Washington and Mr. Dickenson and all the other brave souls who were willing to die for their new country. They would weather through all of the approaching storms together, as one, untied force.

If Arthur wanted a fight, then by hell, he would get one.

"Mr. Secretary?" called Hancock, taking his seat at the head of the Congress. "Is the Declaration ready to be signed?"

"It is."

"Very well. Call the roll," Hancock sighed and leaned back in his chair, looking for a split moment to the congressional custodian. "McNair, go ring the bell."

Alfred glanced after Mr. McNair as the custodian slipped out the meeting room door. The custodian's footsteps echoed down as he climbed thin wood staircase. For a moment, Alfred wondered if the man would need help, but the thought was cut off as the secretary, Mr. Charles Thomson, stood at the front of the room and brought out the roll sheet.

"When your name is called, please step forward and sign," the secretary cleared his throat, starting down the list as the bells began to chorus above them. _"New Hampshire, Doctor Josiah Bartlett." _

_Bong. _The grand bell high above began to ring as Dr. Bartlett stood, scrawling a neat signature at the bottom of the document. _ Bong. _

"_Massachusetts, Mister John Adams."_

Adams jumped to his feet, all nervous energy and excitement. He glanced back at Alfred, grinning like all of his dreams had just come true. Perhaps they had. Alfred sent the grin right back.

"_Rhode Island, Mister Stephen Hopkins."_

"_Connecticut, Mister Roger Sherman."_

Alfred clenched and unclenched his hands over the top of his knees. He could feel the invisible shackles loosen and break with each additional signature. The excitement rustled through him like the wind through the trees, and he turned look out the window at the thought.

It was pouring rain, and even that was energizing. Even the gloomy clouds couldn't bring him down now.

He was free. Really, truly, _free_.

"_New York, Mister Louis Morris."_

Further north than even New York, a young man with blonde hair and violet eyes was coming home with a fresh barrel of his favorite maple syrup. His polar bear companion ambled after him, occasionally pausing to lick at the drips of sweet sap that was left behind.

He reached his doorstep at the same moment that bells reached his ear. He turned in surprise, but knew that the sound came not from the village further down the hill, nor from any bell that he should rightly be hearing. They sent a chill straight down his spine, the icy finger that heralded change. Big change. World change.

"Oh god, Alfred," he whispered. "What have you done?"

"_New Jersey, the Reverend Jonathan Witherspoon."_

"_Pennsylvania, Doctor Benjamin Franklin."_

Across the ocean, a lordly and respected advisor retired from his courtly duties just in time to enjoy his afternoon tea. He had barely touched the steaming cup to his lips when he heard bells – not from any outside source, but from somewhere deeper, somewhere inside. With every ringing tone, a stretched and weathered tether to his heart was worn away. He dropped the cup into his lap, ignoring the scalding heat that bled through his clothes, and jerked his head towards the window.

Something – no, some_one_ – was breaking away. From the empire. From him.

"Are you all right, sir?" asked his servant worriedly, but he was not. Maybe he never would be again.

"_Delaware, Mister Caesar Rodney."_

"_Maryland, Mister Samuel Chase."_

From the porch of her Bainbridge, Massachusetts, home, Abigail Adams could not hear the bells. But she was smiling anyway, because she had just received new letter from her husband, and that was the greatest gift the world could have brought her.

"_Virginia, Mister Thomas Jefferson."_

Jefferson was straight-backed and grave as he neatly inscribed his name on the bottom of the document he had worked so hard to bring into the world. It had gone through so many changes in the last few days. So many complaints and alterations. But its spirit – its bold, truly American spirit, the spirit that had possessed him ever since that inspirational afternoon in his apartment – was still alive and true.

As he made his way back to his seat, his eyes trailed to the boy in the far corner. Alfred Jones was lost in thought and positively glowing. Literally.

"_North Carolina, Mister Joseph Hughes."_

A stream of sunset light cut through the storm clouds and illuminated Alfred Jones like a religious painting. Jefferson blinked once, and the image was gone, but he found that he didn't want to look away.

Adams was staring as well, and Hancock and a number of others. For a brief moment, in the midst of all their disagreements and misgivings about one another, they were united in a single sensation: the odd feeling that the boy was blossoming under their very eyes.

And somehow, they knew that it was all because of them.

"_South Carolina, Mister Edward Rutledge."_

Benjamin Franklin was the one who finally made a move to get the teen's attention. He leaned back in his chair, covered the Alfred's hand with his own, and patted his arm like a proud grandfather, grinning from ear to ear. "Happy birthday, my boy."

"_Georgia, Doctor Lyman Hall."_

_Bong._

Alfred Jones, the United States of America, grinned from ear to ear as the bells faded into the stormy twilight. The chains that had held him down were now shattered and the door of the cage was wide open. It would be a fight to get the rest of the way out of the prison, but it would be more than worth it.

And it would be _awesome_.

_**FIN.**_


End file.
